The Scars Remain
by AnnHoj
Summary: They had become a part of him, each one a sign of where he had been and what he had done, like some paper-less passport he carried on him even in sleep." --A little post war R/Hr scene


So I've done some thinking lately...imagine that. But a bit of it, naturally, slopped over into my writing. Things happen unexpectedly and each one that does leaves a little stamp on our lives; reminding us who we are and from where we originated. I thought, given the end of the Hallows, the same kind of thought could be applied to good old Ron and Hermione. I've written something similar, but this has a different thoughful spin on it that did whatever I've done in the past. A simple (mostly) narrative between the pair, short on spoken words because in situations such as this, they say so little in comparison. I'm trying something a little different than my usual witty banter.

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There were wizarding spells to heal broken bones, phoenix tears and dittany to heal over open wounds. There was probably something out there on the books to make scars fade away completely from existence, but Ron didn't know anything about it. He figured that if there was one, it wouldn't work to reverse the effects of dark magic, like Harry's scar or George's ear. If there was one, Hermione would have most likely known it, but he wasn't about to ask her.

It sounded strange, even to him, but he didn't want to get rid of them, to erase them in an instant. They had become a part of him, each one a sign of where he had been and what he had done, like some paper-less passport he carried on him even in sleep. The more he looked at them, the more he realized just how many should have been fatal blows to his hide, how many times he should have died, but by some thread of luck, he had escaped it for at least another day. They made him feel more alive, and when surrounded by the aftermath of death, it was a simple but comforting thing.

His scars were his past, caused by the series of events that also caused him to be the person he was now. They had molded him like malleable clay into the, now, man whom he saw staring back in the mirror. Who exactly that was, he was unsure, but he knew he was without a doubt stronger, smarter, and braver than he had imagined he would have been when the darkness finally came to an end, if he was even still much of anything at all.

He was supposed to be in his room, in his bed sleeping, but yet he found it impossible to confine himself within his orange painted walls completely alone. He tossed and turned from one side to the other. His mind ran away from him, wild and untamed by his better judgment, his thoughts caught by the walls and ceiling that refused to let them escape from his presence. So many of them swarmed in the air that he felt more suffocated with each breath he tried to steal.

Ever since the war had begun, he had hated the nightfall. When he ran out of thoughtless tasks to occupy his mind, his mind had to find other things to do for entertainment, which most often included every unwanted thought that he had fought to keep at the back of his mind during the day floating back to the forefront of his conscious. He had tried tricks of daydreaming about pleasant things, things that would happen after the end, until he involuntarily slipped off into real dreaming. But more often than not, while he was pondering the thought of winning over Hermione and living happily ever after, a dark cloud would come in and rain doubt upon it all. The questions returned to him of whether she would be alive or whether he, himself, would be for that matter. His hopeful images of Hermione in a white wedding dress, whether it was for him or not, were replaced with looming apparitions of her in her best dress robes lying eternally still, just as Dumbledore had been just the year before. He hoped that if it all ended up that way, Voldemort would have a curse just the same saved up for him.

But the war was over, he had expected it to all come to a peaceful stop, yet his head was still plagued with undesired thoughts of death and destruction. His last good night's sleep had been so long ago that he could only recall it vaguely, and it was about time for them to return to him once again. When all of his attempts failed, he found his feet kidnapping him from his bed and down the hallway to rest in a chair at her bedside.

She was still in sound sleep, a look of peace across her face as her lips rested in a slight smile, lying sprawled on top of her blankets. He hadn't noticed until then how warm it truthfully was. Although it was summer, he had blamed his own warmth as a side effect to his inability to breathe or sleep comfortably. As the only slightly cooler waft of air carried itself through her open window and against his skin, he parted his eyes from her. They fell upon his hands where he began to study his palms intently, gazing over every imperfection in his pale skin. There were still small red marks that, to one who didn't look close enough, blended in with his freckles, though caused by shards of glass that had flown through the air. He couldn't remember when they first inhabited his hands, but he could imagine that they had been brought about by the wall that came crashing down in front of him, crumbled at his feet, the wall that had fallen down on Fred. Sometimes he could hardly stand to look at them. His brother had died, and all he had received were like minor paper cuts in comparison. He couldn't help but to feel guilty in some sense. It sickened him. He wanted so badly for there to have been an equilibrium made of their injuries; that he could have suffered something more serious if only Fred could have been saved from his of fatal nature. He forced his fingers into fists, and had his pajamas had side pockets, he would have buried them in there far from his eyes, out of sight and therefore, hopefully, out of mind, but he let them rest on his lap.

She stirred slightly, pulling his attention back to things more pleasant. He studied her like she did the library of books she carried around at her side. His eyes rested upon the dark reddish shadow at her neck, though he could barely see it in the dim light, he was very aware that it was there. He had witnessed Bellatrix slice into Hermione's fair skin, spill her blood in small drops, not to kill her, but simply to prove what she was capable of doing if provoked, and torture the two in the process. The thin, distinct line had faded out into all directions, fading the pigment in the process. It had been a few months now, but it still appeared just blatantly obvious to him in his memory.

He noticed a small red patch on her elbow that hadn't been called to his attention until just then. It was about a sickle in size, but stood out against her skin in a dark shade of pink. He couldn't figure how the small burn pattern had remained hidden for so long. Based upon how stubbornly it allowed itself to heal over, he attributed it to Crabbe and Goyle's fiend fire that they had allowed to run rampant throughout the Room of Requirement. A small piece of ash must have fallen and landed upon her arm to leave such a small spot in it path.

As his eyes followed her every subtle movement, the dim light hit her hands, folded together at her side, illuminating the fine remnants of cuts upon her fingers. Hers, however, he knew were not caused simply by flying debris, but by the way she had taken up the hobby of chopping the nightly dinner vegetables, while he was on hiatus from their company. They probably couldn't be seen by unknowing eyes any longer, but he couldn't help but remember. Harry had told him that her anger had turned her clumsy. If she had been enraged enough, she'd begin as early as two in the afternoon, occasionally letting out too much frustration that she'd slip and catch a fingertip instead of the carrots in front of her.

He couldn't stand to think that he had affected her so greatly when he had abandoned them on a whim. The second he did it, he regretted it, wanted to take it all back. He regretted leaving her in tears, in danger unknown to him, danger from which he would have been able to save her if she had needed it. Perhaps that was why he felt so much comfort from the simple act of watching her sleep, watching her at peace, and some how, in his mind, making sure she's safe as long as he's there at her side. He didn't know how well he actually could be at protecting her, because most of his attempts previously had not gone as well as he had imagined. Regardless, it pressed upon him a better state of mind, and really, that's all for which he could ask.

He couldn't help but love everything about her; the way she pouted as she slept, the way her wild curls completely covered her pillow. It was much the same with the way her lower lip was still slightly split as it had a habit of doing as a consequence of battle, her cheek was still a slight shade of purple, and there had been an inches long gash appear upon her shin some time before they parted from Hogwarts. He knew it was unorthodox to say, but he found her physical flaws to be beautiful the more he looked at them. They all stood as simple signs as to how brave she was, how much she had suffered, yet still she managed to push through. It wasn't easy to say such truthfully of many others he knew. He loved her, and yet all he could do was silently watch her sleep.

He coughed, although quietly, the noise appeared louder in the otherwise silent room. He covered his mouth with his hands, his elbows resting upon his knees as he focused his gaze on the floor boards of all things. He was angry at himself that still, after all this time, he still felt sick to his stomach merely thinking about uttering those three words to Hermione. Merlin, he'd already kissed her, albeit she had been the one to initiate the whole thing, for once, being completely honest with her terrified him.

"Ron!" He bolted upright at the sound of her frail voice. Upon doing so, he saw her sitting upon her bed sheets, legs crossed underneath her, looking at him keenly with half alert eyes. "What are you doing here?" As she looked over at the clock hands at her bedside, she rubbed her eyes awake. "Were you watching me sleep?" Her eyebrows furrowed themselves as she interrogated him.

"Well…I" He stuttered to find a decent, un-creepy way to explain in all to her, but he just kept stumbling until he decided to choose the truth. "Yes…I was…" His face was growing redder by the second. "Sorry…" He breathed in a softer voice. Ron felt it necessary to do so for some reason. "I just needed to…" He pulled his knees in toward his chest nervously, as if by making himself smaller he could just disappear completely.

"It's okay…" He caught a glimpse of a smile on her face while trying his best to avoid her gaze. He worked up the nerve to look at her again, to see her motioning towards him and then to the seat upon the blankets beside her. He froze until a smile broke across her face and her motions quickened.

He rose from his chair hesitantly. Stuttering his steps, he approached her and rested uneasily upon the edge of her mattress, only to scoot back towards her as she still watched him silently, but impatiently. "So…How're you doing?" He slapped himself mentally as the cliché conversation starter popped out of his mouth, though laughed it off as if it was his intention all along. He had never before found it so difficult to speak to her in comprehendible intelligent sentences.

She smiled with her eyes as she whispered a simple, "Good…" She tilted her head towards him and added, "…now I am," as she rested upon his shoulder.

He faltered his response in the way his arm paused momentarily in the air above his head before it snaked around her shoulder and rested against her skin. His other lied lifelessly across his lap until she lifted it midair with her hands. She kept his hand comfortably within her own, allowing her other to wander its length, magnetized by the large raised pinkish scar that marred the flesh on his upper arm. She ran her fingertips across it, feeling its fragile texture in comparison to its surrounding war toughened hide. He had grown darker since the spring sunlight had graced his presence, making his freckles more numerous and more noticeable, along with the glowing white swollen line that followed the curve of the acquired tone in his arm.

It looked as if it had only healed marginally since that last time she took a conscious glance at what had at one time been a quickly exsanguinating gash that she doubted whether she could even begin to fix, magic or not. She remembered then how she had pondered whether or not to pack the dittany. She didn't know much about it at first. She didn't know of how much use it would be on their journey, whether it would just become one more glass bottle rolling around in the bottom of her bag waiting to break and a make a mess of her books. But it was in a last minute thought that she added it for good measure. She couldn't bear to think of how things could have ended had she took a second less in consideration. He could very well have died without those few lifesaving drops used. She found it hard to fathom how differently life could be for the both of them had one second in time played out differently, had someone distracted her thoughts for a moment while packing.

It wasn't just that one incident that flooded her mind, but everything else that had occurred in the last few months; the times, the places they found themselves, the words said, the steps taken; had they all been composed my some other choreographer, one of them could very well have found themselves sitting there alone, rather than with their companion. She could feel his pulse surely enough as she still held his hand, tighter now, within her grasp, but it did nothing the push the visions of him lying lifeless beside his brother's body in the great hall or later watching from above as he was lowered into the ground, to be eternally hidden by six feet of soil. She must have let out a sob as her mind was disconnected from reality momentarily because his reaction was instantaneous.

"No…" He demanded. "You are not _okay_…" His voice remained forceful, yet was soft with concern and the volume in which it was spoken. By his prompting, her form curled in to his, her head resting against his chest, her body engulfed within his arms. "Now…what's wrong?" He whispered throughout her hair, the overwhelming curls that twisted freely from her head and resided on his shoulder and down his arms.

She stirred slightly but didn't come to the surface before speaking. "I was just thinking too much…" Her words already weak, came out slightly muffled against his shirt, thought he strained his ears to hear each one.

He decided to press her no further; it would have been hypocritical of him if he did. He could understand her completely, as he found himself doing the same, the reason he had searched her out to guide his own mind from, what he imagined to be the same realm of things from which he wished to run. He couldn't help but wonder how long it would take for things to return to usual, or whether, honestly, it ever would. Hermione made things better, not completely okay, but simply better than the moment previous. She was his Band-Aid, his ice cream after a skinned knee. She couldn't fix things or turn back time…well at one time she could have, but this was too touchy, too big of an event to try to go back and make for a better outcome.

Silence had always scared him, made him uncomfortable, and more often than not, prompted him to say something inappropriate for the timing. This time, however, things felt differently. He didn't need to fill the air with excess noise to lighten the mood, as the room felt comfortable already as it was. In the silence he could hear her breathe; hear the life flow in an out from her reassuringly. He could both hear and feel her heartbeat, beating at its normal tempo, but amplified by the lack of any other noise hovering around them. Her warmth surrounded him, warming his cold toes. He took it all in, but still had this burning need to open his mouth. "I love you." He spoke, as if he hadn't yet realized he had done so aloud; casual, honest, and free from anxiety, nothing like he would have expected from himself.

She lifted her head a moment later to meet his eyes, though she said nothing. His face grew more apprehensive by the seconds she showed no response. Her face was flat of emotion, but she still kept her eyes on his worried ones. As soon as his brow found itself furrowed, she cracked a smile. She leaned up to press a kiss to his cheek, chaste but straight-forward, her lips soft against his stubble.

She needed not to utter a word, for the message her eyes sent to his spoke loud and clear. He didn't know what it was about the look, but he couldn't help but feel as loved as the amount which he felt for her. Her eyes held his trapped for one more fleeting glance before she burrowed her way back into his embrace. He laughed as she did so, resting his head back against the wall adjacent to Hermione's bed.

He could have stayed there just like that forever, had the word 'forever' not seemed like such an impractical concept to him. It was more that he meant 'forever' in a figurative way. He would need to sleep quite soon, take a trip down the hallway to the bathroom eventually, both which would effectively steal him from her calming presence. No one could possibly stay in one, although comfortable, place indeterminately. He thought of it more meaning that this one occurrence would not be the last, in fact he would make sure that it would happen as often as possible. It wasn't something he could explain easily in words, but being there with her, being there with her just felt right.

His gaze dropped to her once again, only to find that she had already fallen asleep without notice. Fighting the urge to be lured into a deep, recuperative sleep just the same, he knew it would be impossible to do so, given the position he was in currently. As much he hated the idea, he knew it was about time he left. He lifted her, as carefully as he found possible, off of his lap and situated her to a more orthodox place to sleep, her head resting upon a cool pillowcase, her limbs curled toward the outside of the bed parallel to the other of its kind. After learning he had done so successfully, he scurried over her from the far side of the bed to plant his feet firmly on her floor. He was about to turn away from her and head for the door, but it was the last glimpse that he stole that held him frozen in his steps, paralyzed physically and in his thoughts.

He had never realized how much he liked the ambiance of moonlight. Before, the only affect it really had on him was more practical, the way it made their late night treks through the countryside easier, but in this instance it was more a matter of being aesthetically pleasing. As a beam of it filtered through the crack between the curtains hanging lifelessly in her open window, it gently hit her face, its luminescence brilliant enough to highlight every fine feature of her face, but weak enough to allow her eyes to continue with their peaceful rest. His steps drew him a few paces closer to her. From there, her could see and hear her release a sigh as she made herself comfortable and settled further into her bedding. His eyes were glued on her and he could feel his face spreading into an overly cheery school-girl grin, but was useless to fight it.

He knew better, he knew he was only getting himself into trouble, but the pull he felt toward her, like a magnet or a summoning charm, was too strong to keep him moving in the general direction of the door, open at the other side of the room. He looked over to it one last time, its wooden planks beckoning him, pleading for him to leave through its borders, but instead he found himself sitting upon the edge of her mattress. His bare feet paused for a moment before they escaped from the cold floor to rest beside hers, his back following suit moments later, though falling carefully against her sheets to keep from disturbing her.

He felt the need, for some reason or another, to remain there, flat on his back, his arms resting beneath his head, altogether at some great distance from her, as if to do anything else would be considered scandalous or crossing some sort of invisible forbidden line. He had been sure of himself before it had become more of an issue, but now all of a sudden he doubted all about which he had felt so strongly. But she had taken up residence right in the middle, making it difficult for his larger frame to rest contentedly in the manner he wished to choose without running the risk of falling on the floor. He stole more space, claiming the inches that once lied between them for his own. He could feel his side brush against hers and he held his breath.

It had been called to her attention; she reacted not in the way he had expected, but reached for him from her still sleepy state. Her free arm wrapped about his stomach like a vine of ivy, preventing him from moving in protest. Her reaction was automatic. It was as if, even in sleep, she felt such a need to be near someone, that any outside stimulus even mimicking a warm human touch, she would pull closer. Though the worst was over, trying times, the rebuilding, the act of leaving the past behind them and moving forward, still laid at their feet; they both knew that very well. But there was a larger part of him that hoped her response was more specific to him; that it was his hand for which she searched blindly, that it was his warmth, and only his, that she craved to bring her comfort. An awake Hermione would never dare admit it, but there was such honesty in sleep that lured the truth out of her. He took it as some form of permission allowing him to stay there with her a little while longer, his better judgment the far from his mind.

His actions mimicked hers, his arms wrapped strong and protecting around her middle and pulled her closer, finally allowing himself to settle in at her side. His heartbeat that had at one time been running the pace of a rabbit had reverted to its more relaxed speed. She smelled of soft lavender and was warm to the touch, all except for her feet, which felt ice cold against his. They always were, regardless of the weather, and he had come to expect that. In fact it made him laugh every time. But the smile that the stupid insignificant thing brought to his face broke when his fingertips fell upon her arm. It wasn't its temperature, warm or cold, but the texture. He couldn't see it in the, but he could feel it and knew it well; the pinkish skin, newly healed over from the deep red cut that has once called her forearm its home.

The thought rose in his mind as his fingers grazed her flawed skin one more time. Maybe all the scars were meant to be constant reminders that things could and would get better. The scars remain, but the pain of the original hurt disappears. They would never go away completely; they would always be those raised marks upon your mind, a reddish spot to remind you exactly where you've been in comparison to where you are now. His thoughts of losing her still haunted him, the visions of his brother's lifeless body, and the nightmares of the upheaval not yet at its end; they'd torment him for awhile. They'd be painful to look at, painful in every attempt to dress them, but given enough time left out in the air, they'd heal over and time would continue ticking at its normal speed.


End file.
